


In Another Light

by Apfelessig, openmouthwideeye



Series: Rosvolio 1900s AU [1]
Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: 1900s AU, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, Train Station, lovely lazy Saturday morning read, what-ifs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 10:24:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12408558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apfelessig/pseuds/Apfelessig, https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: In a setting where the feud has not reached its bloody peak, and revenge is not sought, Rosaline and Benvolio meet and discover a connection that goes beyond family names and duties.A collaboration piece. Co-conceived, co-written, co-edited.





	In Another Light

**Author's Note:**

> Openmouthwideeye and I wanted to see what Rosvolio would look like if they'd found each other naturally, under less adverse circumstances. For this AU, we can assume that Rosaline's parents are alive and posted abroad, leaving her as a servant in her uncle's Great House, and Livia has moved away with Paris under amicable circumstances.
> 
> The song I played on repeat during the final reviews was "Roslyn" by Bon Iver.

It was liberating to feel a sense of purpose. Not that Rosaline wasn’t given tasks on a regular basis. As a senior servant in the Great House of Capulet, her hands were never idle. But such menial undertakings didn’t give her life, purpose, the way she felt simply walking to the train station in the brisk November air. She clacked across the stone floors with a lightness she hadn’t felt in months to take her place in line at the ticket seller’s booth.

“One return ticket to Mantua,” she said, stepping up to the counter. The man surveyed his sole customer with a curious look.

“To visit my sister,” Rosaline said, smile stiffening, “of equally low social standing so as _not to require a chaperone_.”

The man arched an eyebrow and languidly went about producing the ticket.

“Next train is at 10:30, _binario uno_.”

Rosaline paid and pocketed the ticket, sweeping across the entrance hall with her valise.

 

Benvolio thumbed his ticket in his coat pocket as he strolled through the station. He’d lost her, briefly, after she’d left the counter. His eyes scanned the hall idly, cataloguing detail out of habit—the sharp relief of support beams against the lofty ceiling, a family standing in perfect configuration for a well-composed sketch.

He found her again on the platform. The place itself seemed to wish it so—the arches drew his eye to her as a figure in chiaroscuro. Light pooled around her warmly. Her skin shimmered like the glisten of oil in a painting.

She sat on the bench, book held at a respectable angle, head inclined in serious, but not unladylike study. All in all, she looked the picture of a young woman at her leisure, though she was unchaperoned. He caught her look up at the clock impatiently and watched her toe tap as she scanned the pages an impossibly short time for any effective reading. She gave an impatient sigh, turned a page, and glanced up at the clock again.

Benvolio approached and waited at a respectable distance.

“ _Scusi, signorina_ …” She looked up with a sharpness that gave him pause, but he recovered. “Might I join you?”

She scanned the other benches, sized him up quickly, then offered up a polite smile.

“Of course.”

He settled his case beside his feet. “Lovely day for traveling.”

She looked skyward briefly. “Yes, sunny.”

“I was afraid I’d need a heavier coat, after the clouds this morning. Lucky it cleared up.”

She smiled vacantly and turned a page.

“I’m Benvolio, Benvolio Montague,” he said, extending a hand. He had to scoot forward and twist to reach across himself. Rosaline put down her book and regarded him seriously before reaching a decision. She shook his hand, awkwardly.

“Rosaline Capulet.”

“Capulet, _cavolo_ ,” he smiled, sitting back. “Should we alert the guards? There could be bloodshed.”

Rosaline smirked, despite herself. “I’m off duty,” she said, raising the book again.

“Ah, well, then I’m a lucky man. It wouldn’t do my family good to hear I’d been bested by a Capulet wielding a hardback romance novel."

It had been meant to goad Rosaline into revealing her reading material, but it missed, leaving a natural lull in the conversation.

After almost half a minute, she unexpectedly said, “Perhaps you can convince them it was out of gallantry.”

“Ah, well,” Benvolio tilted his head with some contempt to an invisible party. “You misjudge the values my family holds dear.” He looked up to see he had her cautious attention. “Ambition,” he explained, “is our prize possession. We breed for it, like farmers might breed pigs.”

“Don’t tell me those satisfied with their lot are headed for the slaughter.” She’d spoken lightly but immediately saw that she’d overstepped. The cheery composure around his eyes stiffened as he turned away. His jaw tightened.

Etiquette, or perhaps compassion, drove Rosaline to provide an alternate route.

“Estates may be specialized, but a modern world can nurture all kinds of ambitions. Some that might be prized more highly by other farmers.”

“You’d be hard-pressed to find a farmer who values artistic expression in his stock,” Benvolio quipped, taking the olive branch with some grace.

Now her interest was genuine. “Is that your ambition? You’re an artist?”

“ _Dio santo_ , no. Aspiring. Bumbling. My ambition is to convincingly imitate an artist.”

“I see no difference in imitation and the act itself,” Rosaline said. “Surely it’s a matter of intent and moderate skill.”

Benvolio gave her look of mixed amusement and disbelief.

“Would you say the same of a musician?”

Rosaline opened her mouth to counter but shrugged, fractionally. “I suppose.”

“There’s more to an artist than oil and umber,” Benvolio said, with the tone of one who needed this on the record. “There’s skill, yes, and of course a lot of theory. But a true artist has a gift for seeing that goes beyond mere perspective and shading.”

Seeing her unconvinced, he expanded. “The skill lies in using theory, a standardized set of rules, to bring about unique ideas and evoke emotion, genuine emotion, in anyone who sees it. It’s the pursuit of a perfect glimpse into an imperfect mind, it’s…” he ran dry. “Well, it’s wonderful.”

His hands had come to life, forming emotional landscapes in the air. Rosaline watched him with a growing smile that she tucked away neatly once his hands came to rest. A peaceful silence settled in, bathed in sunlight. Benvolio watched the platform as Rosaline began reading again.

“And what is it you aspire to?”

Rosaline didn’t look up from her book. “I aspire to tend to my husband’s wellbeing and manage affairs of the house with grace and steadfast loyalty,” she said with brittle brightness. “Yes, my heart aches to fill my days hosting dinners and maintaining social respectability in accordance with my station.”

Her obvious hostility gave him pause, but she glanced at him with an almost imperceptible twinkle in her eyes. “That’s my story and you won’t convince me to say otherwise.”

He smiled back, a little relieved. He turned his hat over in his hands before asking, “And if things were different?”

The twinkle turned suspicious. “Different?”

“If you were...” he waved the hat a little, faltered. “Free. Of your obligations.”

“I hardly have time for fantasies, Montague.”

“Do you not dream? Have something you would wish for, other than hosting dinners?”

Rosaline snapped her book shut, her eyes hard.

"What could I possibly aspire to here?" she said. “My whole life has been mapped out for me. Within a year, I'll marry and take on my own household. After that, what will it matter what I want? If I were free of my family I could be a teacher or a nurse, something useful. Not that it would make a difference. In Italy, I will always end up a wife and a mother.” She reopened the book and flipped the pages harshly, looking for her place. “If I had any sense at all, I'd run away.”

Benvolio found himself holding his breath. The air rang between them sharply. Rosaline bit her lip.

“I’ve been rude, forgive me,” she said. “Please, don’t share what I’ve said.”

“I won’t tell,” Benvolio said, swallowing. “I promise.”

His inflection appeared convincing. Her shoulders softened under her severe coat.

“So, a nurse, then? You’re interested in medicine?” He grinned at her nonplussed look. “Well, you did say.”

“It’s not about the profession. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Try me.”

“Oh, it’s just,” Rosaline dropped the book in her lap and scanned the hall, momentarily at a loss, “I suppose it’s more about feeling valued, really. Respected, even. Being necessary, with no one to direct your every move.”

“To be in control of your own destiny?”

She turned to him then, her mouth a perfect O of surprise. Benvolio would have delighted in this small victory, but was struck by a vulnerability as forceful as her earlier hostility. It was like witnessing a heartbeat. He was held fast by her openness, and could do little more than feel himself be swallowed by hungry eyes of darkest amber.

A shrill whistle announced the incoming train, and the hold on him tore like paper as the behemoth screeched to a stop. The platform erupted into efficient busyness and pushed him back, stumbling, to the present moment. Rosaline blinked and cast about for her belongings.

Benvolio stood and collected their bags as she got to her feet, gesturing to the stoop of the train. He handed her bag to the porter and waited awkwardly at a respectable distance. Rosaline seemed equally unsure of which protocol to follow and clasped her gloved hands.

“Are you going toward Mantua?” she asked, suddenly.

“No.” Benvolio covered his regret with a smile. “Venice.”

“Oh. Well, it’s been a pleasure.”

The words fell out of her automatically but the feeling that ballooned behind them rose like steam to her cheeks. Benvolio’s smile flew wide before he reigned it in.

“Yes, likewise. I had a lovely time, _signorina_.”

She hesitated, then corrected, “Rosaline.”

“Rosaline.” Nothing could reign in his next smile. “Safe travels, Rosaline.”

She nodded politely and stepped onto the train, turning at the last second to send him a warm look. “Good luck, Benvolio.”

After the train had pulled away, Benvolio sank onto the bench in the patch of sun, leaned back his head and closed his eyes.

_A Capulet, huh..._

Who’d have thought.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Cavolo_ = Holy smokes (lit. cabbage)  
>  _Dio santo_ = Oh my god  
>  I don't speak Italian and the usage of these (mild) swear words might be totally anachronistic. However, swearing harshly in front of Rosaline would not have helped his cause and, as openmouthwideeye pointed out, "Gosh" is a bit too wide-eyed for his character...


End file.
